You are browsing the archive for 2010 June.

Dinner with Diego at Caracas Arepa Bar in the East Village. Four arepas – the Playera (white fish with onions, peppers, and herbs), the Guasacaca (guacamole with paisa cheese), the De Pabellón (beef, black beans, white salty cheese and plantains), and the Los Muchachos (chorizo, spicy white cheese, jalapeños and peppers). Pacifico beer for him, Negra Modelo for me. We’re digging in. The arepas are crunchy. The chorizo is succulent. The guac is everywhere.

Nothing tells you what the people want like browsing their country’s supermarkets. Japan: every single part of the fish. Ireland: industrial-size burlap sacks of potatoes. And America? Sugar-coated goodness as far as the eye can see.

We’re driving to Bumblefork to visit some family friends, and my parents pull in at a bakery to buy gifts – pane rustico for Sofia, pastries for Tim. It’s 97 degrees out. My mother puts on the Mutefish CD I brought her from Dublin and we head down Dale Mabry. We’re barely out of Tampa before my father starts.

As soon as I’m in my parents’ house – seconds after I drop my bags in the guest room and eat a cookie – they say: “Good. Now fix my computer.” I lost my Facebook friends list. AIM says I have to upgrade but I don’t know how. Why is the toolbar on the side now? I don’t know how to click.

Maybe you also have Baby Boomer parents who are struggling to doggy paddle in an ocean of digital technology. In which case, you’ve probably also watched them while they’re working at their computers and had this thought:

Ladies and gentlemen, the following collage of photos illustrates why I continue to return to Florida after all these years*. Florida seafood – there ain’t nothin’ like it. Git yerself to a crab shack, sit yerself down, and git dirty. Last night, my parents took me to a crab shack on the side of the highway between Tampa and St. Petersburg. This is the food I dream of wherever I am – Japan, Guatemala, Italy, Dublin, in bed. Anywhere. The meal of champions. The meal of foodlust.

My father – who grew up playing fútbol with homemade balls in the streets of Guatemala City, who played the sport for the University of Rome - has been keeping a World Cup score card on his coffee table at his home here in Tampa, Florida. It’s a makeshift thing; the match list printed on the front and the scores neatly written next to each team pairing.

“His journal,” my mother says.

“Dear diary,” I recite. “Today the U.S. tied England. It was a very exciting day!”

Despite the fact that I am the child of two athletic parents and the sister of a sports-obsessed brother, I’ve always much preferred sitting on my ass. Genetic recombination fails yet again! Pass me the laptop and watch said ass expand. Thanks to Facebook status updates, however, I’ve recently picked up certain things – such as the fact that someone called Drogba sucks and broke his arm, or that there is a country called Australia which failed in its attempt to win the crown. Since arriving in Tampa, I’ve thrown out these pieces of information every so often for my father’s benefit.

“What?” he says. “How do you know about Drogba? I thought you didn’t give a chit.”

“Well, surprise!” I say. “I know about Drogba. Happy Father’s Day!”*

*I don’t know about Drogba. What is he – an evil umpire?

I also know that Shakira sang this World Cup’s anthem and that it is called Waka Waka. My father loves Shakira. The family owes her a great debt; she saved my father from heartbreak after his first love, Selena, was murdered.

“Dad,” I say over lunch. “What do you think of the World Cup anthem?”

“I like it,” he says. “I like it.”

“Ha!” says my mother. “Shakira. She’s not so sexy. What does she have that I don’t have?”

Returned from Ohio yesterday; my first foray into the flat, green fields of the American Midwest.

Quite beautiful… as was the smorgasbord of chain restaurants. Taco Bell. Wendy’s. Chik-fil-freaking-A. Golden Corral. Bob Evans. Steak and Shake. Cracker Barrel (!!!). At the groom’s house the day before the rehearsal dinner; hamburgers, beans, macaroni & cheese, and Bisquick strawberry shortcake. For breakfast in the morning, Cinnamon Toast Crunch. And in the hotel convenience store, Hot Pockets and Teddy Grahams and Snickers ice cream bars and Chex Mix and Lifesavers….

So yesterday was 70 degrees in New York City – sunny, clear, and mild, the first lovely weather I’ve seen in months. Obviously the perfect day to prance around in a new dress. I dug through my suitcases, pulled out my recent Grafton Street purchase, and paired it with a nice slick of red lipstick. QUITE SUMMERY, if I do say so myself.

I went to Washington Square Park and watched the jugglers, the dogs, and the spray of fountain water arching towards the clouds.

I bought a new digital camera from B&H – God, I missed the US dollar.

I met the gorgeously pregnant Koko for lunch and Erma for dessert + dinner – dessert first, because Doughnut Plant closes at 6:30. Overall, a long, lovely day to chill me out before heading to Ohio today for Alexandra’s wedding.

And then I got back to Diego’s apartment.

“Hi, Diego,” I said.

“Hi, sis,” he said, his mouth curved in a malicious smile as he regarded my lovely new dress.

Some selections from his monologue:

“Did the tourists enjoy the Norwegian display?”

“Did Lucy and Ethel f*ck up the chocolates again?”

“Where’s your hair net?”

“Ring ring – Disney called. They want their It’s a Small World dress back.”